


REVERSAL

by godotco, poetatertot



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AFTG Reverse Big Bang, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Blackmail, Hoverboard Racing AU, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Slow Burn, if Nora can make a sport up then so can I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 14:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18012710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godotco/pseuds/godotco, https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetatertot/pseuds/poetatertot
Summary: There were three rules to Ex-E that every rider knew.One: Race with one foot forward.Two: Race with fair game.A third rule existed—one unspoken but always known. This was the rule Neil lived by, the rule that carved his past year alone out of blood and sweat. He would never give it up.Rule Three: Race however you want. All you have to do is not get caught.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And here we are.  
> A big, big thank you to [still-waiting-for-godot](http://still-waiting-for-godot.tumblr.com/) for giving me amazing art to work with and allowing me try an AU I've always wanted to attempt: cyberpunk! I'd also like to thank [Baekhanded](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baekhanded/pseuds/Baekhanded) for betaing this piece during all wild hours of the night. This work couldn't have been done without either of your support <3
> 
> Both art pieces are featured in chapter two, but can also be found [here](http://still-waiting-for-godot.tumblr.com/post/183252501724/aftgreverse-is-here-thanks-to-all-the-writers). Please support Jen's beautiful art!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

There were three rules to Ex-E that every rider knew.

Rule One: Race with one foot forward. There was no way to win if you weren’t leaning into the wind, pressing your face forward towards destiny. There was no way to  _ be. _

Rule Two: Race with fair game. Winning was all about playing an even hand; cheating was as good as losing. A code existed between riders: they would never lay a hand on each other. Racing was all about skill.

A third rule existed—one unspoken but always known. This was the rule Neil lived by, the rule that carved his past year alone out of blood and sweat. He would never give it up.

Rule Three: Race however you want. All you have to do is not get caught. 

 

← // →

 

Neil shot down the highway. Bikes and cars blurred past him in neon streaks, bodies that left sharp ozone and vivid light-paths in their wake. He ignored them all. 

He had a mission to finish.

Goggle radar blinked in the peripheral of his right eye—a nifty addition he’d wired in himself once he’d recovered from an early failure. Three points blinked on the screen. He frowned, leaning further towards the nose of his board. 

He hadn’t meant to pick them up. The race had been entirely for his own benefit, a challenge he met every week with racing heart and shaking hands. He always tried to go further without riding, but—well. What else was there? 

But now he had three on his six. Three who took his speed as a challenge; three who wouldn’t rest until one of them had definitely  _ won _ . 

Neil wasn’t known for losing.

He slipped into his favorite position: one foot forward, toes barely over the board’s edge, his knee hovering in the dangerous no-man’s-land ahead of his grip. Wind scraped his scalp; behind his grey goggles, tears filled and slipped away from his eyes. His blood sang like a wild animal.

He was  _ alive. _

The world blurred and ceased to exist. New Columbia narrowed down to highway signs, neon roadways, the off-ramp Neil picked last-minute in an effort to escape the other riders. His heart picked up speed to match his board. Sweat slicked his skin despite the chill of sheer speed, oiling his grip beneath leather gloves and pads. 

_ Three. Three I can take. _

He leaned into the ramp’s curvature. One knee pad kissed the ground and lit a spark—his first invention coming alight from under the leather. His left hand shot out on reflex to hover a hair’s breadth above the pavement. 

_ If I can just.. Ah.  _ There  _ we go. _

Two paths lay ahead: right towards downtown’s shopping district and left towards the warehouse district. The riders behind him would expect him to take the warehouses; there, packing containers and construction sites would make easy racing ground. It was a clean way to end a race—but Neil was no clean rider.

He took a right.

New Columbia’s threads shot into his line of sight. Ad boards whirred and glittered; storefronts blared local top forties. Bodies began to stack—small clusters, greater masses, until they became a whole wave Neil couldn’t avoid. 

Neil jerked his board for the wall. His forward foot slid back and lifted gently, muscles shifting as he made a perfect right angle with the ground. His board rocketed up,  _ up,  _ out over the crowd’s heads. He soared over them easily—right across a neon marquis.

In his peripheral, one dot slowed and drifted out of radar.

_ One down. Two to go. _

He was a grey streak down the sidewalk. Around a gaggle of girls, under a lifted sales table, across glass handrails and over an open manhole. His heart pounded on his tongue; sweat burned on his eyelashes. 

New Columbia began to rise. Storefronts became big buildings; windows became glass,  _ miles  _ of it, spreading up and out to touch pastel evening clouds. Overhead skyrails shimmered on suspension cords like hanging jewels, and above them, the colored, clear highways stood against the sunset.

It was getting too crowded. He had to get out of there before the city swallowed him whole.

He feinted left and darted for the closest freeway. Cars honked as he jumped a stoplight and shot onto the on-ramp, up,  _ up,  _ breaking for the sky. 

Two dots hung on radar. 

Neil grit his teeth and  _ pushed _ .

His board lit up like a signal flare. The engine whirred frantically, heat spilling out in a brilliant, blinding white exhaust streak. His board began to  _ burn. _

_ Initiating Overdrive: One. _

Holding on became instinct. Neil flattened himself as best he could and clung for dear life. He didn’t know where the freeway went, but it didn’t matter anymore.

Every road led somewhere in New Columbia. All you had to do was get on one.

They raced for miles. Light shifted—warm one moment, cold the next. The sun set. New Columbia opened a thousand eyes to the night.

But even if Neil could last forever, his board couldn’t.  _ Wouldn’t.  _ He could feel the engine beginning to wane, the tiny gasps that spelled imminent failure. He had to win quickly or crash-land.

Left peripheral opened a small window—live footage of his backside. The dots were becoming visible.

One was black from head to toe. The other gleamed orange.

Neil’s heart tripped over itself. He suddenly became conscious of his flagging limbs, his blistering fingers. They didn’t know who he was, but it didn’t matter.  _ He  _ knew  _ them. _

There was only one team New Columbia allowed to wear full-body orange: The Foxes.

His gaze flit between the screen and the cars in front of him. That tall frame, those bared teeth. There was no mistaking it. He had the one and only Gordon riding his tail.

_ How did it come to this?  _ Neil thought frantically. Alone, Gordon would’ve made a formidable opponent. All of the New Columbia Foxes were formidable in their own way. Some specialized in sleek speed; others, like Gordon, chose crazy maneuvers that made other riders swallow their own teeth. 

One on one, Neil could’ve taken him on. He was no stranger to chasing death himself— _ but.  _

There was someone else to contend with.

“Raven,” Neil hissed. And not just any Raven either, by the looks of it. The blood-red finish on that board and helmet belonged to one man only: their captain, Riko Moriyama.

Neil was going to lose.

The certainty of realization soured his breath. His heart rolled and slammed against his ribs, desperate to rip through skin.  _ Run,  _ the rational corner of his brain screamed.  _ Just take the loss. It’s not worth everything you’ve worked for—  _

His eyes snagged on a looming spire ahead of them. The dying sunset clung to the monument’s frame, turning it into a fiery spear. It stood against the other buildings like a beacon, an arrow pointing straight towards the moon.

Like a finish line.

_ Just a little more,  _ the other half of his brain whispered. 

Neil leaned in. He braced himself, shoulders hunching haggardly. His brain already flew ahead of him, miles ahead, tracing the fiery perimeter of New Columbia’s Needle. 

_ Initiating Overdrive: Two. _

Even as his board turned molten, Neil saw it. He  _ felt  _ it—the hot wash of the others shifting gears to chase him. The stench of ozone dried his mouth and burned his eyes, weighing his tongue in bitter iron.  

He gave all he had.

It wasn’t enough.

 

← // →

 

**EX-E RIDER DEAD IN FATAL COLLISION IN SKYSTREAM DISTRICT**

 

Neil stared at the headline. 

He’d known it was coming. He knew what its contents did—or didn’t—contain. He even knew who reported it. None of things helped the uncomfortable twist of his gut, the awful squeezing of a cruel, invisible grip.

Neil felt his phantom hands even now.

_ Seth Gordon, 25, was a leading relay member of the up-and-coming New Columbia Foxes. Newly renown for both speed and daring—  _

_ “He’d always had difficulty staying away from danger,” one close source said. “He would’ve done anything to win, even—” _

_ Estimated dead on impact—  _

_ That could have been you,  _ his brain whispered.  _ That  _ should _ have been you. _

Neil slammed his fist on the remote. The hover-screens blinked out of existence, plunging his flat into darkness. 

For how long he sat there, he would never know.

 

← // →

 

Someone was following him. 

He hadn’t been sure, at first. A lifetime of paranoia lent itself to bouts of irrationality—irrational fear, irrational mania, irrational anger released with one foot forward. 

He’d checked the way his mother taught him: weaved and darted, taking odd turns, looking back in glass reflections and through peripherals. He was definitely being followed.

Neil checked the time. He had an hour before his shift at  _ Hernandez’s  _ started. It wasn’t a lot of time, but he wasn’t expecting a major hold-up. His stalker wasn’t anyone he recognized, nor any shade of his father’s old men. He didn’t even resemble any Ravens. Neil wasn’t expecting it to take longer than ten minutes.

That was his first mistake.

His second was the move left, trailing a semi and slipping into an elevated parking garage. He wasn’t afraid of being trapped; there was more than one way to escape a skyscraper, especially with his board in tow.

Upwards they rode. Cars and bikes gleamed candy colors in charging hubs like sugared displays, their wax reflecting blue-white lights directly into Neil’s wrap-around glasses. New Columbia stretched up with them, puffy clouds and chrome planes reflected in vertical miles of polished glass. 

Neil glided to the top floor. There weren’t many vehicles that high up, and no other people. He slowed to a stop in the middle of the lot and stepped backwards off his board, toeing it up into his palm in a single, fluid motion. He turned to face his stalker.

Grey on black. Simple leathers; a pair of shades that gleamed obsidian. The rider stopped short ten feet away and dismounted in a smooth, quick step. 

_ Short,  _ Neil noticed, surprised. That was rare.  _ And seasoned.  _

“What do you want?” he asked. “I’m on a tight schedule.”

The rider cocked their head. Gloved hands rose to lift sunglasses, tucking them into the vee of a non-protocol tee. 

“Make time,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”

Neil’s mouth went dry. His eyes snapped to the board; there were no indicators, nothing that betrayed its owner’s identity, except— 

_ Except—  _

A single paw print hidden under the nose.

“You have something that’s mine,” said Andrew Minyard, starter of the New Columbia Foxes. “Give it back.”

Neil stared at him. He knew better than to let his eyes betray him, but his thoughts were a rioting jumble. How had they found him so fast? He’d been so careful, so sure he would’ve slipped under the radar. 

Unconsciously, one hand slid over his jacketfront. 

Andrew didn’t miss the movement. “You know what I’m here for,” he said. His voice rolled like a stone, hard and smooth. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to steal?”

_ On the contrary.  _ Neil’s gloved hand curled into a fist. “I found it.”

“Bullshit,” Andrew replied. 

Neil didn’t waste time arguing further. His hindbrain was already calculating the steps needed to vault off the back, the seconds until his board registered gravity and shot him through airspace. Overdrive would take care of the rest.

He made to turn—a sharp twist kicking up gravel. In an instant, a vice clamped around his forearm, yanking him back into concrete. His board slipped from his fingers and clattered a few feet away.

Andrew stood over him, blocking out the sun. His expression betrayed no disgust or displeasure. From his flat mouth to his empty eyes he was stone, a suspended boulder ready to drop and crush everything beneath. 

“You have ten seconds,” he said.

Neil was a winner. He'd grown accustomed to getting his way, to cutting losses like they meant nothing. He couldn't swallow the bitterness that crept out as he fumbled his jacket lining; acid rose on his tongue, mixing with the tang of blood. He'd bitten his cheek.

He held up the flash-drive. It seemed inconsequential, barely the size of a quarter. They both knew better. 

A penny for thoughts; a quarter for the unthinkable. 

Andrew pinched the drive between two fingers and held it to the sun. The silicon gleamed brightly, pristine in spite of its owner’s messy death.

“You were easier to find than I thought.” Andrew's lips twisted, the barest twitch in composure. “But I never lose what’s mine.”

One fingernail popped open the drive’s casing. A tiny chip fluttered out, paper-thin. A tracker.

Neil’s blood ran cold. 

“How long?” His eyes snapped from the drive to Andrew’s stony face. He could feel his heart, dulled from defeat, begin to speed again.  _ “How long?” _

“Long enough.”

Neil’s stomach twisted. The past year—barely held together with worn threads—snapped and blew away like dust on the wind. A lifetime of paranoia, and he hadn’t even checked for a tracking device in the drive. 

Somewhere beyond death, Mary began to scream.

“What,” he bit out, “do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything,” Andrew replied. He surveyed the surrounding buildings with disinterest, fingers tucking the drive away. His gaze trailed to drop onto Neil’s bent, rumpled form. “But someone else does.” 

Neil stared at him. 

The Ravens never dealt with anyone beyond their own. His father’s men were dead or long gone, their presence erased beyond Neil’s scars. Then who— 

Neil stopped. Blinked. Looked up into Andrew’s eyes steadily, even as his thoughts spread and thinned into thousands of sparking circuits.

“You don’t mean..” He licked his lips. “Why?”

“Who knows,” Andrew said. The way his eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly, said  _ I do.  _ “But he hates waiting.”

Neil held his breath. The world was flattening, widening rapidly in directions he couldn’t see. The prospect of going into the unknown made him numb. 

He’d made this path for himself,  _ by  _ himself—a circular track set in blood and bone, dying promises and metered allowances. He raced it daily.  _ Be unknowable. Be unnoticeable. Win, but never stay long. _

He’d broken off the track. The hole still bled behind him, gaping and warm.  _ Stay,  _ Mary whispered.  _ Stay here.  _

But the world beyond was big, and his board hummed, vibrantly alive. 

“What if I say no?” Neil whispered. 

“You won’t,” Andrew said. And he was right.

 

← // →

 

New Columbia was a gleaming metropolis, a jewel in the crown of the Reunited States’ eastern coast. Its skyrails and hovertech were the nation’s best; its freeways, some of the finest the world had to offer. Crystalline, neon-lit skyways threaded skyscrapers like a woven nest. Some said they were even visible from space.

New Columbia was technological ground zero. It was the birthplace of thirty-first century ingenuity, the stomping grounds of scientific breakthrough.

It was the home of Ex-E.

The teams that ran New Columbia’s racetracks shared no love. Multiple stadiums existed to house them all, dividing riders by district affiliation. 

There was the Sunstream District’s Solar Cycle—a golden whorl embedded in the earth, a prize to solar energy ingenuity. Home of the Trojans. The walls glowed even at night, hot and bright like a setting sun. 

There was the Underground District’s Redlight Raceway—an exclusive, privately-owned arena that gleamed obsidian in New Columbia’s underbelly. The Ravens housed there didn’t like to share; few went in, and even less ever came out. 

Lastly, there was the Cybergrid District’s Cyber Court. The Court’s doors, permanently open, gave a home to any Ex-E enthusiast lacking the power or connections needed to go elsewhere. With its green-and-blue honeycomb ceiling and grandstand seating, there was nowhere else a rider  _ needed _ to go. 

It was there, sandwiched in among all the nobodies of the Ex-E world, that the New Columbia Foxes trained.

Neil had heard about their past glory; everyone had. The Court was supposed to be  _ theirs,  _ a monument to the last of New Columbia’s championing triad. They’d even been rumored to win the Ex-E Olympiad—before the founding coach killed himself on the competition’s eve. 

Overnight, the Foxes dissolved. The Court was dedicated to something else, and the finishing leg of New Columbia’s Ex-E glory folded into history. Twelve Olympiads passed; the Ravens and Trojans handed the trophy off to each other in turns. No other teams beyond New Columbia could match them.

Until  _ him. _

David Wymack was a beast of a man, all broad muscle and curling tattoos. His five-o-clock shadow and under-eye bags spoke of insomnia and longtime c-stick addiction. He frowned more than he smiled, and scowled more than he frowned. Court riders knew better than to approach him—but if  _ he  _ approached  _ you,  _ it was something special.

Wymack only spoke to potential.

Neil had visited the Court once, when he’d first moved to New Columbia. Everything about the track stole his breath away: the neon-green grid net, the road, paved in glowing orange honeycomb, the sour-sweet tang of hoverboard exhaust curling in the air. He could picture it all perfectly even a year later.

But even in the midst of all the dazzle, all the moving lights and sound, one man had stood out to him. Wymack drew eyes like moths to a flame.

Because he  _ was  _ one.

The second Wymack entered the raceway, every rider fled for the stands. Neil remembered the way he’d been ushered into the scaling seats. With all of them looking down on him, Wymack seemed like a tiny point of a man, a simple figure dressed in black and orange.

He stared out at the track. His board glowed to life beneath him, orange like a burning star. And then, he  _ flew. _

Down the raceway, up the walls, soaring over obstacles. His body was impossible to track; instead, Neil’s eyes clung to his boardstream, orange exhaust flickering and leaping like a moving animal. Like a flame. Like a  _ fox.  _

He didn’t make any ceremony. When he finished, he left without looking up the stands, disappearing into the elevator without a word.

Neil had read all about Wymack’s glory days—golden era uncontested, solo trick sessions unparalleled. He’d heard all about the accident that stole his dominant foot, damaging his skills. But even in retirement, as he was reported to be, Wymack shone like a sun among men. He was impossible to beat out.

And then, the Foxes.

A name on the wind. Regular citizens barely knew who they were. They’d never been spotted all together, and their reputation, sparse as it was, already bore stains of accidents and failure. But they  _ existed,  _ and that was enough.

Fighting for relevance alongside the Ravens and Trojans was madness. The Foxes, mysterious as they were, seemed determined to take on the job anyway—and it was all because of  _ him. _

“Coach.” Andrew stopped short. They’d reached the Court parking lot, an open area that circumvented the massive, orange dome like an egg white. The evening crowd flowed past them, a myriad of specimens from all over New Columbia. 

The motorcycles before them gleamed, inky splotches stained against the candy-bauble of surrounding cars. Leaning against the cycles were a small cluster of unfamiliars, and among them, Wymack himself.

He looked every inch the rugged man of Neil’s memories. His gaze passed over them both, hard and unreadable. His lips pursed around his c-stick; he pulled free, exhaling cerulean and silver. The waft of it glittered above their heads.

“You found him.”

“Easily.”

Wymack tilted his head. His orange track jacket seemed to glow all on its own, lurid and painful against Neil’s eyes. It didn’t match the man’s husky demeanor, but then, Neil thought, the orange didn’t quite match any of them. 

The Foxes were a ragtag motley. Neil had heard their names in passing—seen even less of them. Descriptions wafted across the Ex-Web database like police descriptions.  _ Long blonde hair. Dark brown eyes; a cut on the lip. Square shoulders and a short afro.  _

_ Reynolds _ , he realized.  _ Boyd, and Wilds.  _

“Where’s Renee?” Andrew asked. 

“Inside.” Wymack jerked his head towards the wide arena doors. “We’ll be in shortly. Start warm-ups with the rest.”

“Not even a thank you?” Andrew drawled. He leaned his board against his hip. “Didn’t you promise me payment for this?”

Wymack heaved a sigh. “After,” he growled. His fingers twitched ash onto the pavement; one boot smeared it away, leaving behind a blue-silver streak. “Get your ass inside.”  
Andrew looked from his coach to Neil. His mask betrayed nothing. A muscle in his jaw twitched. 

“Well?” Wymack snapped.

Andrew’s gaze rested heavy on Neil. He lifted two fingers to his forehead and pulled away—a sardonic salute. 

“Aye aye,” he deadpanned, and slipped away.

Wymack waited for him to disappear inside. The others looked on expectantly. 

“So,” he said.

Neil blinked back at him. “So.”

“You ever ridden before?” Wymack asked.

A thousand races flashed behind Neil’s eyes. He jerked one shoulder. “Once or twice.”

“For a team,” Wymack clarified.

Neil paused. Snapshots flickered through at lightning speed: phantom hands outstretched, red exhaust and black blood, viscera smeared over pavement. He licked his lips. 

“No,” he said.

Wymack squinted. “Right. Well. Maybe you’ve heard the news. I’m down one, and the Olympiad is in three months. Mourning or not, we need a new leg.” The lines around his mouth hardened. “We’ve come too far to drop out now.”

“Who says it’ll be me?” Neil didn’t like the idea of being ushered into this, even if it  _ was  _ everything he hoped for. Everything felt too good to be true, like a dream that hangs on the precipice of nightmares. 

_ It’s your fault _ , his brain hissed.  _ You  _ made  _ this happen.  _ He tamped down the ugly thought.

“Day,” Wymack replied. “He’s insisted we look into you. To me, you’re little more than some yahoo off the street,” his brow furrowed, “but you’re more than that. Am I right?”

_ Kevin Day.  _ Of course. Even without a face, Neil knew his obsessive proclivities. He knew his talent. Everyone did; like Wymack, he was an animal to never approach. The fact that he’d been looking, been  _ watching,  _ curdled Neil’s blood. How many eyes were following him?

“Maybe.”

“Don’t play coy with me,” he snapped. “Day and Minyard don’t take any interest in anyone but themselves. Can you or can’t you ride?”

Neil sucked in a breath. There were a thousand answers he could give to a question like that—a thousand replies that would make him safer, press him back from the pages of history. The Olympiad was too great for him to go unnoticed,  _ especially  _ with the Foxes on the rise. He would be stepping out from hidden races into a spotlight that counted his every move. He would  _ be  _ someone again.

The thought terrified him, but he couldn’t deny the thrill that sang in his bones. 

It was all he’d ever wanted, after all.

Neil looked from face to face. Minimal intel on the other Foxes existed, but he didn’t need any to read them. He could see the edge in their stances, the iron in their eyes. They bore expressions almost identical to his own—thin masks covering scarred, rocky pasts. 

They were not New Columbia’s finest. Neither was he. 

But that didn’t matter. In Ex-E all that mattered was  _ winning _ , and Neil knew plenty about that. It was all he had to live for.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, I do.”

 “Well.” Wymack crushed his c-stick underfoot, scattering stars. “You’d better come inside, then.”

 

The Cyber Court was a technological beauty. A love letter to Ex-E and holographics alike, its neon grid layers and gleaming glass hallways echoed New Columbia’s exterior like an artful cityscape cyber-rendition. The floors were lit beneath in dizzying colors; the walls, glittering with pinprick points and streaks that coalesced into a nighttime overview of New Columbia’s districts. 

The interior had no overhead lights. None were needed. The walls and walkways glowed enough on their own to light the way.

Neil fell into line behind Wymack. Wilds walked at the Coach’s right, murmuring in a low, urgent tone. Boyd and Reynolds trailed behind Neil; he could hear them gossiping, Reynolds’ light, glimmering voice dancing over Boyd’s low one.

“Short,” Reynolds said. “At this rate, our whole team is going to be made of gremlins.”

“Aerodynamic,” Boyd suggested. “It’s good for speed.”

Reynolds snorted. “Careful, Boyd. Talk like that and you’ll turn into Kevin.”

“God forbid.” They huffed a laugh.

Several hallways branched off from the main one. Wymack ignored them all, pushing past other riders for the main double-doors ahead. Both he and Wilds had to push them open, cracking open the Court’s dark exterior to the sky.

_ Brilliance. _

Neil tamped down the urge to shield his eyes. The Court’s lights burned like a thousand stars hung too close to Earth. Myriads of color glittered and rippled everywhere. He sucked in a sharp breath and tasted the sour-sweet cloy of exhaust.

They stepped out onto the walkway. An open sea of twisting raceway stretched beneath them, wrapping over itself like tangling snakes. Obstructions studded the paths at odd angles—boulders, ramps, water sheets, all tangible projections mimicking the real thing. A spire tipped in loud-speakers jutted out of the center, glass-paneled and pristine. A knife to the sky.

“The Cyber Court.” Wymack looked sideways. “And the rest.”

Neil followed his gaze. The remainder of the Foxes sprawled at the track’s edge, boards lined beside them. As he watched, Andrew drifted up to speak to a woman with a pastel bob; beside her, several men tilted heads to listen. 

_ Dark hair, crooked smile— Hemmick. Walker. And..  _

Andrew’s mirror image looked over his shoulder. Their eyes locked.

_ The second Minyard. _

Wymack nudged him forward. “Stretch,” he commanded. “Then we’ll see what you’ve got.”  
  
“Sir,” Neil said.

“Coach,” Wymack corrected him.

Neil half-expected the others to interrogate him. The second Minyard stared hard enough to practically see through stone. None of them said anything at all.

They went through the motions without any fanfare. Neil was familiar with the stretches, exercises made to minimize injury, and savored the empty-headed peace of going through motions. 

Then, it was just him and the track.

“Stop.”

And them. Of course.

Wilds towered over him. The board under her arm shone like a sunburst, fiery red-orange with flame-like exhaust. It was a work of beauty.

“Coach wants us to see what you can do,” she said. She looked him over. “Are you stunt or speed?”

“Both,” Neil replied. 

One eyebrow lifted. “Right. Okay. Which do you prefer?”

“Stunt,” Andrew cut in. He’d changed while Neil wasn’t looking, shedding leather for black spandex and fingerless gloves that melded into compression sleeves.  “He’s stunt. Put him on the advanced track—the slipway.”

Wilds’ other eyebrow lifted to match the first. “What, you seen him?”

Andrew shrugged.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Fine. Keep your secrets. I guess we’ll see soon enough.”

 

The racetrack snarled itself into an impossible web—slick concrete and greased metal, rainfall and railways. Neil let himself fly near-blind into the fake rain. He was  _ alive.  _

When he finished, panting and rain-soaked, he puttered back to trackside. 

“How..” he paused, taking a breath. “How was that?”

The Foxes stared. Hemmick’s mouth was frozen open. Wilds turned to Wymack, eyes wide as saucers.

“Coach—”

“You’re in,” he said. “Go cool down.”

The wild in Neil’s blood pulsed. He fought back a grin. “Yes, Coach.”

 

← // →

 

He doesn’t see Kevin until the week is almost over. 

The routine shift should’ve made him uncomfortable. For over a year he'd followed New Columbia’s ebb and flow—daytime slumber, nighttime work. Races and obstacle challenges snuck in between wake and sleep. Lifting weights in his apartment.

Detouring to the Court should’ve bothered him. It was five hours in his day remade—five hours of shaving personal records and inventing maneuvers, of learning how to race legal again. Five hours of being  _ watched. _

It should’ve bothered Neil, but it didn’t.

The Foxes were—unexpected. They came and went in clusters he learned to recognize. They liked to talk, but they didn’t force him to talk back. They were content with his name, with his skills, with tiny tidbits he dropped unthinkingly. 

Hemmick— _ Nicky,  _ his brain supplied— shone bright beside his stony cousins. Allison and Renee sparkled in vivid pastels, and Matt raced vivid emerald streaks alongside Dan’s flames. Their exhaust ribbons burned afterimages onto Neil’s eyelids that he saw in his sleep. Their voices rang odd echoes in his ears even when he was alone.

He’d never been one for companionship. Ex-E was primarily a solitary sport; you could race relay, but at the end of the day, the only person you could rely on was yourself. In Neil’s book, there was only room for one rider.

Still, stretching alongside them or racing laps into the evening, Neil felt a little piece of himself shift into place.

The sixth day ended. Practice closed with cool-down stretches and a quick shower in the Court’s underground locker room. Wymack gave him a nod on his way out. Everything was as Neil already expected—until it wasn’t.

Andrew and Aaron cut unnerving images in the entry hallway. Light bounced off twin jawlines and hollowed eyes with odd brilliance, a neon glow echoed against Aaron’s white sweatshirt but was swallowed by Andrew’s black ensemble. Between them stood a man Neil had never seen before. He knew who he was instantly. 

Something existed within Kevin that made him unmistakable. 

“Neil!” Nicky called. His teeth gleamed purple under blacklight. “You’re just in time. We’re heading out.” 

Neil stared at Kevin. Kevin stared back. The backlighting tipped his black hair purple-pink. The rest of him—broad shoulders, thick brows, a strange tallness between the Minyards—bled him into the Court’s shadows like a spirit. He looked almost ghostly—until he opened his mouth.

“You.” He flicked his gaze up and down. “You’re shorter than I remember.”

Neil felt his mouth twist. “Have we met?”

“Not personally. You would’ve remembered if we had.”

He spoke plainly, without a hint of smugness. The prickle of irritation on Neil’s skin ebbed. He supposed Kevin was right—he would’ve known him anywhere. Kevin’s reputation preceded him by several miles and more than several trophies, not to mention his rumored Raven connections. The spotlight stood over him in a way Neil both loathed and yearned for in his darkest moments; he didn’t know whether or not to hate the man on sight.

“Kevin’s been out sick,” Nicky explained. “Mandatory bed rest isn’t his thing, but if you’re vomiting every time you sit up, some things can’t be avoided.”

Kevin frowned. “I would have come in anyway if I hadn’t been stopped at the door.” 

“Merchandise is no good if it’s broken,” Andrew said. He shifted, dark eyes snapping to pin down Neil. “Something for you to remember.”

Neil’s hands twitched. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“We’re going downtown,” Nicky cut in. He twisted one curl between two fingers and smiled tentatively. “To Eden’s Twilight, our usual spot. We go every Friday. You in?”

The idea of stepping into a crowded, dark place made Neil’s skin itch. He frowned. When he’d joined the team he hadn’t thought about being  _ invited  _ places. 

“You can change at our place,” Nicky went on. “You have your board, right? We can put it in the trunk.”

“Who said I was going?”

Nicky beamed, cheekbones catching the light. “You’ll love it!” he chirped, ushering Neil out the door with them. It was as if he hadn’t even spoken. “They have a theme night coming up—we should all totally go together. It’ll be great!”

“I’m  _ not  _ going to match leg-warmers with you,” Aaron grumbled. “I don’t care how much you ask—”

The pair drifted ahead into the parking lot. Andrew moved to walk alongside Neil. He’d procured his sunglasses from somewhere and perched them on his nose, setting sun be damned. Neil glared at him.

“This was your idea.”

“And if it was?”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to interrogate me earlier?”

Andrew looked sideways at him. “Complaining about your own welcoming party? Where are your manners, Josten?”

Neil clenched his teeth. “I’m not going to play games with you. Just say it.”

“No,” Andrew replied calmly. 

His fingers curled around his board. “I could just leave now.” 

“But you won’t.” 

They stopped in front of the car. Neil didn’t know what he’d expected—a neon machine, maybe, to match Nicky’s tastes. The body before them was the exact opposite, all sleek curves and monochrome.

Andrew opened up the backseat. He didn’t smile, but Neil could hear the humor curling under his voice. “Come on,” he said. “What’s a few drinks between teammates?”

Neil chewed his tongue. Inside, Nicky and Aaron jostled over the radio. Bass began echoing, scraping electric notes out over the concrete. 

“I don’t drink,” he said, but he got in anyway.

 

← // →

 

The routine shift sat well with him. The dreams did not.

Sometimes the dreams were old—history repeating itself, scars layering on top of scars. Those dreams he understood. He understood the flames; he understood the knives. He understood the running, the fighting, the long weeks spent trapped in his own skin. He hadn’t always been Neil Josten, after all.

But sometimes the dreams weren’t old. They’re something else—a twisted perversion bright in his memories, a scarlet splatter of viscera across his clothes. 

A collision. A promise. Poisonous words inching down his throat to squeeze around his heart until it threatened to stop. 

Eyes following him even in his sleep.

_ You will lose everything _ .

Neil woke from those dreams drenched in sweat. His mouth stung with bitten cheeks and chewed tongue; his eyes burned with something like tears.

The dreams did not sit well with him.

 

← // →

 

It took six days for him to meet Kevin. It took another four hours for Andrew to pronounce him  _ safe _ , for the Foxes to pull him into their orbits completely. The weeks after that passed in snapshot images: sunsets over the Court, blurry shifts at  _ Hernandez’s _ , Andrew’s eyes watching him across the track. Kevin at his side, always with a criticism. 

_ You programmed your board to cheat? _

_ It’s not cheating. I  _ made  _ this. _

_ It’s cheating. Overdrives are unnatural.  _ The way he’d turned his nose up made Neil want to punch him.  _ Fix your chip.  _

They were several weeks into training when Wymack pulled Neil aside and announced he was putting him on relay.

Neil almost laughed. Irony tasted bittersweet behind his teeth. Wymack looked over his tablet expectantly, one eyebrow lifted. 

Neil cleared his throat. “There must be some kind of mistake.”

The other eyebrow met the first. “No? Then how come your name’s here?”

“A mistake,” Neil repeated. “I—you signed me to put me on stunt. To take Seth’s place.”  
  
“I signed you for your potential,” Wymack corrects. “And Seth didn’t only race solo. We had plans. This involved putting him on anchor.”

_ Anchor.  _

It was one thing to ride solo. Ex-E was, in itself, a solo sport. The only division between the world and the body were your clothes, your board, your wits. A team was made on the sidelines, but on the track there was only room for one. Only one can  _ win.  _

“I’m the wrong person for the job,” he blurted. “I’m—not the man you’re looking for. Coach.”

Wymack lowered his tablet to give him a long look. “Neil,” he said. “I know when I’m making the wrong call. This isn’t one of them. Who do you think has been watching you practice every day? You think Kevin just talks to a wall?”

“That’s—” Neil bit his lip.  _ Kevin _ , who’d done nothing but criticise his form? Kevin, who’d made it clear that Neil was second to his own skill. Kevin, who pushed him until he could hardly stand. “I—” 

“You’re the fastest man on our team. You run the hardest courses after hours—and don’t say you don’t, because I see the track log every day. I know it’s you.”

Neil bit down on his tongue. 

“We don’t have anyone better,” Wymack said, “and I’m not saying that to blow smoke up your ass. Have you even tried it before?”

Of course he hadn’t. Neil was born to race  _ alone _ ; it was all he was good for. He lived by the Third Rule full-stop. It was the way his mother had raised him.

Neil wasn’t made for others to rely on.

“No sir,” he admitted quietly.

“Leave your doubts off the Court, then. You’re anchor for the relay until we decide otherwise,  _ as a team.” _

Neil felt himself unraveling, bit by bit. A team. Right.

“Yes Coach,” he said.

“You’ll start today. Andrew is starter, followed by—”

 

_ Kevin. He’s the best at technical maneuver. When everyone’s evened into lines, he’ll be the one to push into the lead. _

Neil held his breath. He watched Andrew shoot forward in a furious streak, skill tucked into sturdy shoulders and solid calves. Ahead, Kevin focused forward, muscles bunched to fly. He knew when Andrew would be there.

They had it down to a science.

_ Dan is third. She’s the one to hold the line. She’s all endurance, so you can count on her to keep position for you. All that’s left after that is— _

“Me,” Neil whispered. He leaned forward. His board thrummed beneath him,  _ alive _ . It was clockwork; it was muscle memory. Weeks of labor taking shape.

_ I’m the one who wins. _

 

← // →

 

Fridays at Eden’s dwindle with oncoming pressure. They go every other week; then, when Kevin throws up on the benches one evening, they decide to stop going altogether. Just until the Olympiad is over. 

“It’s good for your liver,” Andrew sniped. “You should be proud of yourself.”

Kevin scowled, wiping bile. “Shut up.”

Empty Fridays left room for Neil to do his own things— making up shifts, making up excuses to stay out with the Foxes in the Court’s lounges, watching movies and eating take-out. They were almost two months into the final push, with the urge to party fading quickly. They couldn’t afford the off day anymore.

“Neil,” Nicky called. He flipped through several screens above his tablet. “What food do you want? We can’t decide, and if somebody doesn’t soon, I’m going to  _ explode _ .”

Neil stared at the screens, unseeing. His vision always blurred after riding too long, like getting off a merry-go-round. He squinted. “Pizza.”

“Didn’t we have that last week?” Aaron shook his head. “I want Chinese, Nicky—”

“Panda Express is  _ not  _ Chinese. Just eat a bottle of oil if you want that shit so badly.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen—”

Neil’s eyes glazed over. Knowing them, they would argue over food for ten more minutes before Andrew made the final call. It was always Andrew. He didn’t know why Nicky bothered getting anyone else to settle.

His vision came back together to focus through the screen. Andrew leaned against the door beyond it, still damp from the showers. He was looking back.

As Neil watched, he got up and slipped out the door. 

Nicky and Aaron were in full swing, voices raised and fingers ticking. Neil slid out of his chair and followed Andrew out. He wasn’t surprised to find the man waiting.

“I figured you out.”

Neil raised an eyebrow. “Did you? What’d you find?”

Andrew stayed quiet for a moment. His eyes were impossible to follow through the floor-lighting, but Neil saw the way his jaw worked.

“You’re not here for Kevin. I can tell. So who are you trying to fight? Yourself?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I see the way you look at them,” Andrew said. The mocking edge in his voice stung less than normal; Neil could hear hollowness, a quiet that spoke of something else. “You don’t want to leave. So why are you always ready to run?”

Neil stared at him. His mouth opened soundlessly.

“I know why,” Andrew murmured. He drifted closer, close enough For Neil to see pinpricks of the lights reflected in his gaze. “How do I get you to stay?”

Neil’s jaw clicked shut. “What?”

“You need to be here. Kevin needs you. It’s in my best interest. I won’t say it again.”

“I—” His eyes caught on the cut of Andrew’s cheekbone. He froze there, staring it down. “I’m not leaving.”

“Convincing. Prove it to me.”

“By doing what, leaving?” Neil stepped back. “What do you want?”

“Proof.” Andrew’s eyelashes were rose-tipped in the black lighting, vivid as his hair. Neil watched as they shifted, taking him in: eyes, nose, lips. And then he opened his mouth, and changed everything again.

“Make a deal with me.”


	2. Chapter 2

One of a hundred late nights. The Court was a gleaming beacon amidst dark skyscrapers. Airplanes glittered far away, jewels suspended against a sky stained by light pollution.

Neil’s eyes burned. The track had long narrowed to a single point. Kevin, stripped down to pads and pants, looked almost worse than Neil. Exhaustion clung to them both like a second skin; afterimages danced like wild wraiths behind their eyes.

Countless runs. Countless jumps and slides. Neil’s fingertips burned; his knees creaked every time he straightened. His back was aflame. He felt like any further and he might fly apart—but.

Only a week stood between them and the Olympiad. He couldn’t afford to waste a single minute, not anymore. That, at least, he and Kevin could agree on.

They’d just altered the set-up for another round—shifting potholes and slick rails—when Andrew moved from his roost.

“Stop.”

Neil paused. Kevin ignored him entirely, fingers working over the set-up screens. Andrew stepped directly into the hologram and curled one hand around Kevin’s wrist. Neon grid slid over his skin, folding over his lips and into the hollows of his eyes.

“Are you deaf?”

“Andrew,” Kevin grumbled. “Get out of the way.”

“No.” His eyes scraped over them both, their ruined practice suits and battered pads. His mouth puckered; grid bent under bared teeth. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Rich words from someone in the stands,” Neil muttered. Andrew pinned him with a _look._

“If you do any more, you’ll be sorry. Go home.”

“We’re running out of time,” Kevin hissed. “If you think you can just—”

“I don’t _think_ ,” Andrew bit. His fingers curled tighter around Kevin’s wrist, crushing bone. Kevin squirmed. “I _know._ You’re done tonight. Go home, Kevin.”

“Just him?”

Andrew didn’t even look back. “I have other plans for you.”

Coming from anyone else, the words would’ve raised hackles. Neil’s gut squeezed.

“Change,” Andrew demanded. The grid flickered out of existence—his other hand taking the remote. Behind them, the track shuddered and blipped away, plunging them into open darkness. “I will wait outside.”

 

Even exhausted, Neil could appreciate the way Andrew brought the night to earth. His motorcycle spread like oil beside him, an extension of iron will, orange rims glowing softly. Nothing else stood between them; the Court lot was completely empty.

He looked up from his phone to meet Neil’s eyes. Neil swallowed.

“Well?” Andrew said. “Are you getting on or not?”

“Kevin,” Neil mumbled. He was drawn to Andrew like a moth to flame; his limbs shed weariness like an old coat. “You’re letting him go alone?”

“He’ll live. Nicky knows to wait, and he has his board. He needs nothing else.”

“You put a tracker in it.”

Andrew stared at him, unblinking, waiting.

Neil sucked in a deep breath. “Fine.” He took the helmet offered. The Plexiglas echoed the heat of Andrew’s fingertips. “Okay.”

They rode for New Columbia’s outskirts.

Neil almost didn’t recognize the signs. It’d been months since he saw those off-ramps swinging overhead, over a year since the city’s glittering fingers reached and plucked him off the ground.

The warehouse district spread the further they went. Warehouses and skyscraper shells cut odd shadows over the earth, splattering pitch on concrete. No neon lived in those corners of New Columbia; the only color was orange, a reflection of Andrew’s jacket and the bike’s rims. The faintest glow over silence.

Neil didn’t ask how Andrew knew the area so well. He curled his fingers over Andrew’s shoulders and listened to the wind as they rode into an open site and scaled it.

An old parking structure—or a new one, half-born. The bike’s engine fell to a purr on the final level open to the sky. Andrew cut it, plunging them into silence.

Neil held his breath.

He’d lived in New Columbia’s beating neon web so long, his eyes had grown accustomed to its brilliance. The roads and skyscrapers had swallowed him like a beautiful beast. He’d forgotten what the city looked like from the outside, from fresh eyes.

Impossible. There was no other word for it. All light and sound, a distantly beating heart that he could _see_ beating—tiny pinpricks racing over the highways, strobes glinting, bass too far to reach his ears. It was like a brilliant, setting sun.

Andrew stared out at it all. From this close Neil could see New Columbia’s reflection in his eyes.

 _Home,_ his brain whispered.

Neil tore his gaze away, forcing his eyes to follow the city’s circuits.

“You know,” he said, “I never thought about staying.”

Andrew took a drag on his pocket c-stick. “Nobody ever does.”

“No,” Neil agreed. “I guess not.”

They stared out at the lights. Neil followed the ribboning highways with his eyes, tracing its vivid streams around the highest skyscrapers. That would be him, soon. Him and..

His eyes flicked back to Andrew. He swallowed.

 _Soon._ So soon.

But what would come after? Neil never let himself think of _after_ ; he was too afraid of _now,_ wrapped in the Olympiad and his nightmares. He didn’t know what would chase the heels of the pledge he’d made—a pledge nobody else knew.

_You will lose everything._

He had to come clean.

The thought stung like an electric shock. He blinked, lips parting. Every blood cell tingled with the thought— of breaking that promise, of slowly unspooling the web he’d made the day he’d come to New Columbia. His skin crawled with the thought of coming clean.

But he _wanted_ to. He wanted to. It was right for someone to know. Now, before anything happened. Now, before it was too late.

 _Nobody makes deals with the devil and lives,_ Mary used to say.

“Andrew—”

“Don’t.”

Neil blinked. Andrew finally turned, c-stick suspended between two fingers. His eyes were unreadable.

“You don’t know.” Neil’s mouth was dry with truth untold; his throat, parched with words unspoken. “Why I had Seth’s board flashdrive. And someone—I need someone to—“

“What,” Andrew said. “Do you really think that I didn’t?” His mouth twisted. “I know who you are. Do you?”

They looked at each other.

“Let me,” Neil whispered. “Let me say it.”

Andrew stared into his eyes. His face’s hard lines were ever-present, a constant Neil clung to at the precipice. He could feel everything churning behind his teeth; he was nauseous with the urge to purge himself.

He was a born liar. He’d lied about having the flash-drive, lied about his past to the Foxes. They didn’t know about the before, about the deal, about his role in Seth’s death. And it _bothered_ Neil.

He’d never wanted to speak the truth before. But he had to start now, before it was too late.

“Listen—”

“No.” Andrew curled his free hand into Neil’s collar and pulled him close. Red smoke wafted between them, heady and thick. “ _You_ listen to _me._

“I know what you did. You can’t make it right. This is not news to you.” His fingers curled tighter. “But from now until the race is over you are still Neil Josten, and I am still the man who said he would keep you alive.”

Neil opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Tell me you understand,” Andrew said.

Neil searched his gaze. The lights reflected seemed so far away—a suspended prize, unreachable, intangible.

He couldn’t have everything he wanted. It was too much to ask for in wake of what he’d done. But this—a tiny fragment in the chaos, a shared breath on a rooftop—maybe this wasn’t.

It was all he had.

“I understand,” he whispered.

Andrew’s hand slackened on his collar. Neil watched his eyelashes flutter as he traced a familiar path: eyes, nose, lips. The c-stick burned away between them, scattering stars.

“Good,” was all he said.

 

 

← // →

 

The morning of the Olympiad was one like any other— or it would have been, if not for the quiet.

There was no alarm; he didn’t need one. There were no phone calls; he didn’t need those either. He was asleep, and then he was not.

Neil woke in his apartment. His eyes burned behind his eyelids— remnants of an uneasy night. He couldn’t remember any of his dreams, but he didn’t need to. The sting of his bitten cheek filled his mouth with coppery aftertaste. Remnants of a nightmare.

He showered and dressed in total silence. First went his racing shorts, black spandex and stylish orange paneling. Then went his undershirt.

He stopped with his shirt in his hands. They’d only gotten the shipment in a few days before: the final knot on a team sewn together with uneven stitches. The material slips between his fingers whispery-light; the reflecting paw-print on the sleeve curls silver claws into his shoulders.

_Josten. 10._

It wasn’t his first name. In another world, it might not have been his last.

Not in this one, he thought.

The fabric slipped on without a sound.

Training pants slid over his uniform; his new highlighter-orange jacket zipped soundlessly. Everything matched—orange and black and white, colors of flames new and old. Colors of a true Fox.

“Neil Josten, number 10,” he mouthed to himself. The stranger in the mirror echoed his movements.

The world outside was waiting for him. He could hear his cell vibrating in the other room— the others come to pick him up. Wymack wanted them all as a united front when they arrived.

Neil looked at himself properly. His red hair and blue eyes. His old scars and new clothes.

 _You will lose everything_. It hadn’t been a threat. It was a promise.

Neil turned off the light without saying goodbye.

The others were disturbingly solemn. Andrew sat wide-awake in the driver’s seat; he nodded when Neil opened the door but said nothing. The others sat in the backseat, varying expressions of anxiety. Kevin wouldn’t stop chewing his fingernails.

“Good morning,” Neil tried. The words felt like a cruel joke.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

Neil buckled himself in. The sun was rising over New Columbia, setting glass walls and windows to flame. The whole world was on fire, silently burning.

“No,” Neil said. “Not really.”

 

They warmed up at the Court.

The halls echoed, strangely empty without crowds of riders clogging the lockers, the showers, the lounge rooms. The hallway became a portal to another world, somewhere neon-lit far away where they were untouchable—an illusion shattered by broad daylight over the track, blowing away on the wind.

The others were already there. Neil sat by Matt and promptly began stretching. Matt looked positively green.

Wymack surveyed the lot of them. They were all there, _together,_ matching inside and out for the first time. Nobody said a word; nobody needed to. Their thoughts were written on their faces, in the orange of their uniforms.

 _Foxes._ They had been through hell and back trying to catch up, but they were all there. Nothing was going to keep them away now.

They ran a couple practice laps. Wind in Neil’s ears cleaned him the way his shower never could, soothing him even as his muscles begin to warm. The ache was familiar. The turns were familiar. His board was familiar. These were things that couldn’t be taken away from him, though the world had tried time and time again.

He was Neil Josten until the end.

And then it was done. There was nothing left to do but get to the starting line. Wymack led them out to the rented van—orange, of course—and ushered them in.

There was no music. There was no fanfare.

They were on a mission.

“Highway E-30, onramp 15,” Wymack told the GPS, and then they were off.

 

The highlight Olympiad race wasn’t particularly difficult. There were no hologram obstacles smattering the ground, no simulated weather to blind and slick corners. There were no upside-down loops or impossible ramps to leap chasms.

The Olympiad, true to its origin, was New Columbia itself.

Neil knew the circuit like the back of his hand. How many times had he raced it, night after night, quietly tracing the city’s perimeter before turning inward? How many times had he taken those onramps into downtown’s heart, lept along the wirey perimeter of the warehouse district, swung around the tops of district skyscrapers?

How many times had he dreamed himself on that track?

They came to a stop at New Columbia’s southern outskirts. The buildings there were smaller, brighter and less gilded. The ad boards were only as big as Neil himself, suspended overhead unobtrusively. All of them were empty, but once the race began, the whole city would be watching. Maybe even the whole world.

The thought chilled Neil’s blood.

Cameras and voices washed over them as they stepped out. Reporters vied for attention behind taped lines; riders shoved their way around, colors from teams Neil knew and more that he didn’t.

He breathed in. Out. He never strayed from Andrew’s side.

They have the opportunity to disperse until their individual races, but nobody leaves. They find their tent in the first leg’s resting area, orange paw print unmistakeable. Abby, Wymack’s maybe-girlfriend, already had come with coolers and first-aid. Just in case Andrew needed either during the race.

Neil hoped he didn’t.

They stretched together again until the last half hour—Neil’s cue to get to his leg. Wymack stood back with his hat crumpled in his grip. His mouth pressed thin.

“There are a million things I could say, but it will never be enough.” He paused, meeting each’s eyes in turn. “This is a new day in history. You’re going to walk where few have ever walked before—directly onto the first place podium. You’re going to take what should have been yours so long ago. You’re going to prove that New Columbia is more than just its Ravens, or its Trojans. More than just its singular riders.”

His eyes gleamed ember-bright. The Fox in him ached to be set free; Neil could see it. He could _feel_ it.

“All eyes are on you. It’s time to show them what you’re made of. There’s no room for doubt, no room for second guesses, no room for error. This is your moment. Seize it with everything you’ve got.

“We are New Columbia’s Foxes,” Wymack said. “Don’t let anyone ever make you believe you’re anything less. And you’re going to _win._ ”

Renee lowered her head to murmur a prayer. Dan squeezed her hands over Matt’s knuckles, thumbing the dips between them. Nicky turned his head skyward and closed his eyes.

Neil turned to Kevin and Andrew. They’d each shed their outer layers for the uniforms beneath, names emblazoned in brilliant white. There was no mistaking who they are.

“Neil—” Kevin stops. His mouth puckered around a thousand words, chewing on unborn syllables. His fingers curled around his biceps. “See you at the finish,” he finally said.

“Yeah,” Neil echoed, feeling hollow. “Good luck.”

Kevin gave him an odd look. “Luck has nothing to do with it,” he said. “We’ve earned this.” He paused, seemingly embarrassed, and turned to nod at the others before leaving the tent.

Neil turned to Andrew. His heart hammered a wild rhythm beneath his skin. Andrew raised one eyebrow, waiting, and Neil felt his heart squeeze even harder.

“Come on,” he managed. “You don’t even look nervous.”  
Andrew’s expression didn’t waver. “I’m not,” he said coolly.

“Comforting.”

Andrew gave him a once-over. He tilted his head. “You’re going to be fine,” he said. “You don’t need me to tell you that.”

“No,” Neil agreed. Sheepishness crept over him— Kevin’s shadow, maybe. “But it’s nice to hear it anyway.”

“Neil!” Abby’s head poked into the tent. “It’s time.”

“Out in a second,” he told her. He turned back to Andrew, suddenly at a loss for words. Andrew nodded towards the tent slap.

“You’re going to be late.”  
“Since when do you care?” Neil shot back. He bit his lip. In spite of everything—the road here, the world there— the quirk of Andrew’s mouth made his stomach fizz ever so gently. A quiet thing in his body ready to burst.

“I don’t,” Andrew assured him, but he paused, looking towards the others, and took a step forward. One step into Neil’s space, comfortable but close enough for Neil to smell his shampoo and morning c-stick.

“Come back,” he said.

The fizzing in Neil’s stomach threatened to burst him apart. He swallowed hard, fighting back a shudder.

“I will,” he said.

 

They dropped him off near the northern end of the city. The New Columbia Needle gleamed its silver brilliance against the morning, reflecting blue sky in its countless. Neil tore his gaze away.

“Neil,” Abby murmured. “Good luck out there.”

Neil looked at her. He could feel his past closing in like a noose, so why was he so happy? His stomach’s fizzing clashed against his beating heart, his pounding head and trembling limbs. A deliriousness crept on him, a wild drive to just _go._

Amidst all the noise inside and out, Neil knew.

“It has nothing to do with luck,” he told her. “We’ve earned this.”

Abby’s mouth turned gently at the corners. One hand rested on his shoulder for the briefest of moments.

“You’re right,” she said. “Give ‘em hell.”

Andrew was an island amongst the other riders. At the starting line, he was little more than an orange-and-black smudge sandwiched between vivid colors. His board gleamed under one arm. Neil couldn’t see the sticker from the big screen, but he knew it was there.

_Fox._

_“On your mark.”_ Tinny intercom blares through loudspeakers on every ad-board along the road. _“In position.”_

Andrew stepped up. He switched his board on and let it hover a hair’s breadth behind the line. His movements were smooth, focused; confidence oozed from his stature, a steadiness that pulled a smile onto Neil’s lips.

_“Set.”_

“One foot forward,” he whispered. Andrew leaned in.

Horns blasted and they were _gone_. Even across the city, roaring could be heard—thousands of people in their homes, on the go, stopping to watch them race against the morning light.

The circuit’s first leg was all curves and turns. It was Andrew’s specialty, bending back and forth with the world’s turning like a windsurfer. His fiery streak burned amidst the prismatic streaks of other emissions; his shadow pushed and slipped between bodies almost twice his size. He embodied cunning, a fox hunting to kill.

Neil watched him race the first mile. There were sixteen teams in total— too many, more than he’d ever officially raced against. He should’ve been terrified. If he was honest with himself, he could feel the paranoia under his skin.

But Andrew had things under control. Neil knew he did.

He turned away from the board and began to stretch again.

“Not cheering on your teammates? Poor sportsmanship, Josten.”

A bright, toothy smile beamed down at him. Jeremy Knox, Trojan team anchor.

“Knox,” Neil said by way of greeting. He offered his hand to shake from the ground. Jeremy clasped his palm, sliding in to stretch out next to him.

“How you feeling, man?” Jeremy slid into a calf stretch. “Don’t have any pre-race jitters?”

“No,” Neil lied. “You?”

Jeremy’s smile went crooked. “I never race without ‘em. Keeps me humble.”

They went through the motions. Neil heard cheers on the wind rise and fall. He sucked in deep breaths and tried to quiet his wild heart. His blood thrummed in his veins like a pounding drum, aching to burst free.

And then they were out of time.

“On the line, riders!”

Neil stood and helped Jeremy up. They clasped hands—a silent solidarity—and Neil felt Jeremy’s pulse hammer against his wrist.

“May the best man win,” Jeremy murmured.

Neil donned his gloves. His board felt oddly light under his arm, even weightless, and in that moment he felt his nerves bleed into the ground. He breathed in.

The road ahead was empty, waiting to be ridden.

He slipped down his goggles.

“They’re coming!”

Neil heard the _thrum_ of boards behind them—practically felt the heat of burning ozone. He knew who it was without even checking his peripherals.

Dan, ready to let him run.

He was ready. He wasn’t going to hold back. He was—

_“Josten.”_

No.

He didn’t dare look; he didn’t need to. His name fizzled like bubbling acid on familiar lips, and _oh,_ Neil should’ve known—

“Fourth leg passing off!”

 _No._ No. Wrong, wrong, Dan was coming, _no—_

_You will lose everything._

Neil blinked. Airhorns turned the world to static. He stared ahead, eyes tripping over curling exhaust—they’d gone—  

 _Go,_ his brain screamed. _Go, you have to_ go—

He was a bird with clipped wings, a fox with one leg caught in a trap—

Go _—_

His board was his constant. Exhaust ribbons shimmered around his goggles, crippling his vision with odd smears. Panic seized up in his throat. He wanted to puke.

He rode hard. His muscles screamed, his blood shrieked, the pounding in his head reaching crescendo. He didn’t dare look down—his foot was too far forward, barely an inch above the ground. Sweat bloomed under every inch of clothing.

_Eleven. Ten._

They weren’t people anymore. They were their boards, shrapnel on the wind. They were _light,_ and he had to catch them. For himself, and for the others.

_Nine._

Neil knew New Columbia. It _owned_ him. Nothing could take away his months on those tracks, endless hours spent going over and over and over—

_Eight._

_You’re a Fox. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise._

_Go,_ the voice in his head screamed, but it wasn’t him anymore. It wasn’t even Andrew.

He knew who it was. He’d heard him for weeks, months, a pressure in his ears, spit flying while he leaned and _leaned—_

_I know who you are. Do you?_

He blinked. Three bodies ahead. His peripherals were alive with moving dots; he paid them no attention. Forward, forward.

The Space Needle drew closer. His vision tunneled. He knew the road like the back of his hand, like a tattoo on his brain, like—

_You will lose everything._

_No._ He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let _this_ happen to him. He’s pushed, leaning until his spine threatened to give out. His hamstrings ached; sweat burned in his eyes. His lungs swelled with fire.

And then the road expanded. Seven lanes. The path beneath was blood-red, dyed even redder by the rising sun. A trail of blood beneath his board.

Riko Moriyama, come to finish the job.

Neil felt him before he saw him— a haunting on his mind, a pressure on his neck. The squeeze of his nightmares crowding his waking brain.

His eyes flit left. Neck and neck.

Riko looked back. He smiled.

_You will lose everything._

And Neil _remembered—_

 

 _They raced_ board-tip to board-tip. The night swelled like a black wave suspended to fall and sweep them away. Rush hour traffic shuddered and sparked around them like a tempestuous froth.

Neil was going to lose.

The realization tasted bitter, an ugliness that blanketed his tongue. His body burned with it. His soul thrashed against the knowledge.

Neil Josten didn’t lose.

 _Just a little more,_ his brain whispered. His desperate thoughts were a frenetic poison seizing his limbs. _Just a little more._

_Initiating Overdrive: Two._

He was becoming a star— _no,_ a comet, flying on hot sparks towards his destination. He wouldn’t let them catch up. He wouldn’t. He never lost.

Riko Moriyama descended like a blade, all black corners sharp enough to cut. He angled into Neil’s boardspace like he was hellbent on colliding. If Neil was a lesser rider, he might have.

Neil cut his eyes left. Riko looked back—and smiled.

The moment their bodies connected, Neil knew.

_I am going to die._

Fitting. How fitting. His mother was laughing somewhere, screaming, pointing her finger down to earth at him. _I told you, I told you. Nathaniel. Are you listening? If you ride where they see you, you will be noticed. You will die._

_You will lose everything._

He lurched right. The world tipped at an impossible angle, his board disappearing out from underneath him. The sky was big, bright with a thousand lights—neon and fluorescents, the city of ingenuity.

Neil looked. He looked and looked and—

The collision throttled every bone in his body. His teeth sliced deep into his cheek, his world narrowing to a horrible loud _crunch,_ hot screeching metal, blaring horns—

Fire.

He blinked. Blinked again. The world sharpened into focus slowly.

A board—not his. A mass lay at the side of the road, just close enough for him to see the color.

Orange, lurid and bright.

Fire. His board was on fire. The smoke of it was _wrong_ , black curling to mix with orange and red. The metal was bent at the wrong angle. This was _wrong—_

“The police will be here soon.” Neil ripped his gaze away. His mouth was full of blood; he was choking on it. Riko stared down at him, impassive. “I wonder who they’ll find?”

 _Why,_ he wanted to ask. _Why?_ But he already knew.

Ravens didn’t share with anyone.

He spit. Blood sprayed down his front. He coughed, clearing his throat. “What do you want?”

“To win,” Riko said, simply. “And you are going to help me do it.”

Neil coughed again. His body was going to shatter into a thousand pieces. “And if I don’t?”

“You will.” Riko stopped, leaning over Gordon’s board. His fingers plucked the chip free from its smashed slot, holding it up for Neil to see. “Or you will lose everything.”

He tossed him the chip.

“I will take care of everything else,” Riko told him. “Forget all this if you want. _All you need to do is—”_

 

He was nothing, then. A nobody trying to cling to purpose. A body existing only to exist. Fear told him he couldn’t ever be anyone. His mother had said so, too. Riko didn’t even have to say it.

_You are nothing._

You’re wrong.

Neil opened his mouth. He sucked in a deep breath. Oxygen burned his lungs, scouring down his throat in a furious blaze. He was _awake._

_I am a Fox._

He leaned forward. The Needle gleamed, perfect and sleek against the heavens.

He was alive.

_I am Neil Josten._

The end was coming. He’d known, staring into the mirror, that things would not go as planned. He’d known, even then, that he wasn’t going to follow through. He was a born liar after all.

A born liar who’d found a home. Who’d found—Andrew. A team. People who believed in him and relied on him; people who deserved to win, even if he wasn’t around to see the trophy.

Whatever Moriyama inflicted on liars, Neil didn’t know, but it would be painful.

 _It’s okay,_ he told himself. _It’s for_ them.

He could almost see it up ahead— a tiny flag drifting above the track. He leaned further. His hamstrings screamed with the effort.

He felt him descend. His shadow swept over the road, black as night itself. Neil wouldn’t let himself be swayed a second time.

Riko was an avenging angel. His eyes glowed with a fury that chilled Neil’s blood; a vein throbbed in his neck, stark against his pale skin. Red with exertion, with mania, his shoulder leaning in to toss Neil from his board—

Not again. Never again.

_Never let anyone tell you otherwise._

_Do you know who I am? I’m—_

He jerked left. Riko leaned right. He swept forward into Riko’s space, into his air— and twisted backward. Around his body.

He never saw it happen. He heard the screams, the oncoming rush, the blood in his veins buzzing and sparking like a thousand electric fires all at once.

The flag. He soared beneath it— too fast, impossible to stop. He slowed, increment by increment, just the way his body knew how. Muscle memory. His ears were ringing. His mouth was full of blood. He’d bit his cheek again.

He turned. Hundreds of eyes looked back at him. Their mouths moved; arms moved.

The blood in his ears pounded.

Neil looked past them all. He looked out to the track, blood-red and bright as his dreams. A single body lay out on it, crumpled and still. A board lay further away, sparking red.

And he knew.

 

 

 

← // →

 

**RAVENS UNROOSTED: EX-E RIDER INJURED IN OLYMPIAD**

 

“Unroosted.” Allison looked up from the tablet. “Isn’t that a term used for chickens?”

Nicky took a swig from his water bottle. “Implying that that isn’t exactly what they are.” He poked her calf with one sneaker. “Come on, don’t be greedy. Put it up for us all.”

Allison’s fingers glided over the screen. Images flew to float above her, a bold headline slapped unceremoniously over an unbecoming photo of Riko. Although really, Neil thought, all of Riko’s photos were unbecoming.

“Out of commission for almost a year.” Matt rolled his tongue over his teeth. “They’ll have to replace him.”

“As if anyone would dare,” Aaron snorted. He wiped the sweat from his brow with one wristband—orange, just as all their new gear was. “He’d sooner kill off the whole team than let someone else anchor.”

They looked at each other.

“That’s—”

“Um—”

“Dude,” Nicky muttered. “Neil’s _right here._ ”

Neil winced. A gap still existed between him and the Foxes— a half of a whole truth buried in blood. With Riko out of the hospital, his next move would’ve been impossible to predict. He’d had to tell them _something._

Not everything— not yet— but he’d started. It was enough, for now.

 _Riko is nothing,_ Andrew had said. _You’re not going anywhere._ And what a relief that was.

They clamored into the lounge room— _their lounge room,_ Neil reminded himself with a thrill. It was officially theirs, with a plaque above the door and everything. _The Foxhole Court._

Paraphernalia lined the walls— jerseys and photo galleries, old pennants from solo medals won. The ultimate prize, a gleaming cup, sat in its case at the end of the room. Kevin hadn’t been able to stop staring at it since it arrived two days before.

They all squashed onto the couches. Neil winced and tried not to think of how his sweaty skin slid on the pleather.

“Okay, Neil,” Dan said loudly, clapping her hands. “It’s your turn to order dinner. What are we having after this?”

 Neil cocked his head. He looked from face to face, taking in their flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Today’s practice had been good for them— _all of them,_ he noted, taking in Andrew’s devouring stare.

His team. His Foxes.

“I think I know a place.” He runs one hand through his hair. “Ever heard of _Hernandez’s_?”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say howdy at [poetatertot](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/) or [still-waiting-for-godot](http://still-waiting-for-godot.tumblr.com/)


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